Page 14 of Every Promise Broken

Standing to his full height, Whit scratches Bogart’s beard. “You were right,” he murmurs, flicking his gaze over to me. “He doesn’t need stitches, but just keep an eye on it. Wouldn’t want it to get infected.”

I nod. “Can do.”

Truthfully, I probably didn’t need to have Whit come all the way out to the ranch to tell me that. I’ve been doing this long enough to be able to doctor the animals myself with most things. It’s rare that I require a vet’s assistance out here, but a part of meI refuse to give a voice to enjoys seeing Whit here from time to time, even if it’s always in a professional setting.

After the divorce, I kept waiting for the moment when I’d feel okay. When I’d feel confident in saying I was over him. Over the loss of our marriage. That time never came. Not with time. Not with distance. Not even when he started dating again. My love for Whit has never once lessened, but after the way I treated him at the end of our marriage, I never felt as though I deserved a second chance. Whit put up with a lot—way more than he should have—and telling him how I feel would be the most selfish thing I could do.

So, I bottle it up, die a little inside every time I see him with his dweeb of a boyfriend, and I soak in the moments I get to be near him.

After he gives some more love to Bogart and Biscuit, we begin the trek back to the house. It’s quiet once again, and while that normally doesn’t bother me, today it’s like nails on a chalkboard.

“How have you been?” I ask, about halfway through the walk back.

Whit’s head snaps in my direction, confusion overtaking his features. “Um, fine?”

I don’t miss the way he phrased it like a question. Although, I’m not sure if it’s because he truly doesn’t know if he’s fine or if he’s just taken aback by the question coming from me.

“You sure about that?”

His thick brows pinch under the rim of his glasses. “Yes. Why? Do I not look fine?”

“You look more than fine,” I mumble, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head. “I just want to make sure everything is okay with you. You know, the money issues that we talked about last month.”

Whit stops walking, turning to face me, body visibly tense. “What’s going on right now? Why are you asking me this?”

Blowing out a frustrated breath, I plant my hands on my hips and gaze down my nose at him.Why does this have to be so damn hard?“We haven’t talked since that night we…you know.”Jesus.“You were distraught, and I just want to check on you and see how you’re doing with it all. See if there’s anything I can do to help.”

His brow furrows as he takes me in, like he is truly at a loss for words. “I-I appreciate that, but it’s fine. I’ve got it handled.”

The way his gaze averts when he says that has me thinking otherwise. “Do you?”

“Yes, Conrad, I do,” he bites back.

“Okay.” Holding up my hands, I say, “I just wanted to check. But also, I don’t know where your head’s at about what happened between us. We haven’t talked about it.”

Balking at me, Whit folds his arms over his chest. “You want to talk…about what happened between us?”

“Yes.”

He huffs, arms dropping back to his sides as he begins walking again. “Well, too bad,” he calls out behind him. “Because I don’t.”

“What?” Catching up to him in a few large strides, I grab him by the arm, forcing him to stop. “Why not?”

Anger flares in his dark green orbs as his eyes narrow on me. “What the hell do you mean, ‘why not?’” He rips his arm out of my grip and takes a step back. “Since when do you want to talk aboutanything?”

It’s not often Whit gets all pissed off and huffy; for the most part, he’s a pretty soft-spoken guy. But whenever he does, I can’t help but find it endearing and adorable. The way his eyebrows crash together and his cheeks get red. Except right now, I also find it aggravating because I just want to fucking talk to him,and he’s shutting me out. Then there’s the voice in my head reminding me that this is my karma for all the times I shut him out when we were still married...

I fucking hate that voice.

“I like to talk,” I mutter pathetically. “Sometimes.”

Whit snorts out a laugh, but there’s nothing funny about his expression. “Again, too bad, Conrad. That night was a mistake.” He enunciates the last word, and it’s a knife to the chest. “It shouldn’t have happened, and I have zero interest in talking to you about it. I’d rather just pretend it never fucking happened.”

His footsteps stomp in the damp grass, hands balled into fists at his side. I rub a hand over my mouth, stifling a laugh because, as frustrated as he’s making me, I can’t deny how adorable he looks when he gets mad. He reminds me of that cartoon character that represents anger from that kids’ movie—what’s it called?Inside Out?

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